Bologna, Day Two

July 25, 2011 by 10 Comments

We’re sitting in the central square of Bologna. I’ve just finished drinking the best cappuccino I’ve had on the trip so far, and there’s a warm breeze caressing my bare shoulders.

Yum!

The weather is perfect. It’s an enormous, rather stark square, with massive medieval buildings on all four sides, the predominant colors of Bologna being dark-red and ochre. The huge cathedral is currently undergoing renovations, but they’ve considerately hung a mind-bogglingly large plastic tarp over the front of it, with a life-sized picture of how it will look when they’ve finished remodeling.

 

At the moment there’s a police helicopter sitting in the very middle of the square. Apparently, the state police have just finished having an exhibit, which they’re dismantling at the moment.

Rick says he likes Bologna better than Venice, because it’s less touristy, less like Disneyland. Of course, probably every place on earth is less touristy than Venice. I don’t.

They flew it in. . .

I’m still grumpy about having to return to the world of motorized vehicles. In fact, people in army jeeps keep driving around and around the square, practically grazing our table, and now they’re loading the helicopter onto a gigantic tow truck, a complicated operation requiring lots of heavy chains and shouting back and forth. (Why don’t they just fly it to its new destination?) All this adds up to a LOT OF NOISE.

. . .why can't they fly it out? Am I missing something here?

 

To be fair, there are lots and lots of people on bicycles as well, helmetless and dressed in business suits and stylish little dresses, darting fearlessly in and out of traffic.

Daughter Ellie told us Bologna has the best food in Italy, and so far, I’m in enthusiastic agreement. I’m eating an extra-dark chocolate gelato right now, the first of the day, purchased in a very fancy gourmet gelateria where the gelato costs 2 euros instead of 1. Without exaggeration (readers who know me know I NEVER exaggerate), this gelato could be death by chocolate. It would be a death you’d welcome, closing your eyes and surrendering to the deep, dark, dense, satiny, rich, intense chocolate infusion as it delivers its lethal dose directly to the pleasure centers of your limbic system. . . wait, where am I?

Rick prefers the thin crust variety

Oh, I forgot. Talking about Bologna. We also just had the best pizza we’ve had (in my opinion, Rick doesn’t agree): it’s yummy pizza topping on salty, pillowy, olive-oily focaccia bread. OMG!! I think I need to go take a nap now.

I forgot to mention that we are now the proud owners of a minuscule bottle of balsamic vinegar that cost–*drum  roll*– sixty-three euros!! Rick may have other ideas (he’s the one who bought it), but if I have anything to say in the matter, we’re not going to use that vinegar, we’re going to make a tiny shrine for it on the mantelpiece where we can pray to it every day.

 

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First Evening in Bologna

July 18, 2011 by 2 Comments

We’re having a drink in a sidewalk café suggested by the obnoxious manager, a couple of blocks from our hotel. Rick says he’s not obnoxious, he just wants to practice his English. (My sweet husband attributes positive motives to everyone he meets.) The bar’s on the corner of a very busy intersection, and I’m a bit out of sorts because of all the traffic and exhaust fumes. I got spoiled in carless Venice! People, mostly elegant young women wearing sheath dresses and high heels, zip by on scooters, weaving in and out of traffic.

So many scooters!

A few middle-aged women pedal bicycles determinedly through the river of cars, taking their lives in their hands. Maybe it’s just coincidence, but when we came into the lobby of our hotel, there was a woman sitting on the couch, propping her leg, with a freshly-minted cast on it, on the coffee table. I figure she probably tried to cross the street-

Now we’re at a little trattoria, also recommended by the hotel manager. I have to admit I’m thawing toward him, since I’m loving this place. He told us, “Order the tagliatelle al ragu and then come and tell me what you think. It’s the best in Bologna.” The trattoria’s a bustling place, very casual, with a delicious buffet of small plates and long trestle tables full of Italians, all laughing and shouting at each other and drinking liters of wine. I don’t see any other tourists. The Italian people are fascinating to me. I shouldn’t generalize, given how few of them I’ve observed (though I did live in northern Italy for six months 26 years ago), but they seem to be such a joyful, enthusiastic, energetic people! They’re not repressed, that’s for sure. I don’t think passive aggression is a common trait here. On the other hand, patience (especially with tourists) doesn’t seem to be their strong suit.

Bologna's famous for its food

Ditto!

 

 

 

 

 

So, back to the trattoria. There are lots of paintings of questionable artistic value on the walls, probably done by friends of the owners, and the prices are the lowest we’ve encountered yet. We get a liter of quite decent red wine for eight euros. Rick goes with the manager’s recommendation, the tagliatelle al ragu, and I order tortellini in brodo, tortellini in broth. Both dishes are absolutely delicious, with a yummy, fennel-y flavor, and the pasta, naturally, is perfectly al dente.

After a while a woman comes in and joins the large, noisy table next to us. She has a dog with her that’s at least as big as a Shetland pony, which, after being petted and fawned over by many of the guests, lies down next to the table and goes to sleep. I love that no one objects to this gigantic dog being in a public eatery. It’s easy to see that Italians love their dogs. We saw many in Venice, mostly small terrier-types, trotting along leashless behind their owners through the crowds of tourists.

Beautiful Bologna

Our waiter is a tall, gangly young man whose long brown hair keeps flopping into his eyes. He wears glasses with heavy black frames and looks like a student. He comes by and asks if we’d like dessert. We thank him and say no, but he perseveres, asking us if we want chocolate salami. We laugh and say we’re too full. In a few minutes, he’s back with a plate containing two slices of something that looks like brown salami. He says, “I know you don’t want dessert, but just try it. You have to try it.” We do, and it tastes like. . . chocolate salami. I’m thinking, the server in Venice did the same thing with the wine last night. I can’t imagine a server back home bringing us something after we had stated explicitly that we didn’t want it and saying, “You have to try this.” For some reason, it doesn’t seem pushy here, though. It’s just part of the charming Italian character.

Our bill is only 33 euros! Full and happy, we stroll through the balmy night back to our hotel. A domani-

 

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First Day in Bologna

July 11, 2011 by 7 Comments

 

Venice

One of the few gardens we saw in Venice

 

Much as I love Venice, it’s time to leave (sniff!). The man at the train station ticket counter is a pleasant, very good-looking man in his forties, (of the Robert DeNiro variety). When I ask for two tickets to Bologna, he nods and says, in Italian, “Two fifty-seven.” I stare at him, my eyes widening in shock. It said on the Trenitalia website that a second-class ticket to Bologna would cost fourteen euros. He repeats, “Two fifty-seven,” as he prints out the tickets. I manage to say, “Two fifty-seven?” and he says, “Yes, two fifty-seven. That’s when the train leaves.” I say, “Oh! I thought you meant that’s what they cost!” We have a good laugh over that. Or at least Rick and I do. : )

We travel through fields of pale green wheat and young corn that alternate with vineyards bordered by riotous displays of red poppies. All the villages the train stops at (and there are many), are built around ancient churches of reddish brick or stone, with the distinctive square belltowers so typical of Italy. In between towns the wooded hillsides are dotted with villas. The train’s rather crowded, perfect for people-watching. A couple of seats down a teenage girl with long brown curls and the face of an Italian Renaissance Madonna dozes. Facing us is a handsome young man who talks on his cell phone in low, beautiful Italian as I shamelessly eavesdrop (I understand much more than I speak). His first call is obviously to a spurned lover. He speaks to her brusquely, impatiently quelling her hopes, then snaps his cell phone shut with an exasperated expression. A few minutes later he dials another number and his voice softens as he trades sweet nothings with someone else. Rick tells me he saw him on the platform in Venice passionately embracing a young woman. A third lover, perhaps?

Across the aisle is a very different type of Italian man, a sweet-looking older gentleman with a red, leathery face and work-roughened hands who sits very straight in his seat. He wears a threadbare collarless white shirt buttoned up to the neck and holds a child’s backpack emblazoned with anime characters protectively between his legs as he stares at us with undisguised curiosity. A bit of pink tissue paper protrudes from the backpack. Rick and I decide he must be a farmer traveling to the big city, perhaps for a granddaughter’s birthday.

Our hotel room actually has a window!! Imagine that!

Our hotel, the Hotel San Mamolo, has a charming back garden.

In Bologna, we hail a taxi and are delivered at lightening speed to our hotel. The manager comes out, meets us at the curb, takes our bags and addresses us by name (all good). I have a grudge against him already, though, since he insists on speaking English and refuses to let me practice my Italian on him (bad). Our room’s on the second floor. It overlooks a small street and is very pretty, with green and white striped walls and a matching duvet on the bed. Much nicer than the tomb in Venice. We rest for a while, then descend to the lobby, where he has a list of recommendations ready for us. The Italians are so efficient!

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Venice, Last Day

July 4, 2011 by 8 Comments

Good morning and Happy Fourth! Barbecue and fireworks! Yayy!! Here’s my next post (and last one on Venice- sniff!).

I’m going to have to alter my MWF publishing schedule, just for a month or so- a health emergency (not mine, but a very dear friend’s) and an upcoming summer family visit are going to take up all my time for the next couple of weeks. So I’ll only be posting once a week for the next few weeks. I hope I’ll be back on the 3X a week schedule by the last week of July or the beginning of August at the latest. In the meantime, look for my posts on the next few Mondays. Remember, you can subscribe (right here in the sidebar) and be notified when a new post comes out–and MANY THANKS to those who have already subscribed! XXOO Annie

Venice, Last Day. While we’re sitting in our favorite little square at breakfast, a flower-strewn coffin is wheeled by on a sort of gurney as the church bells toll a doleful three-note dirge and a crowd of people draped in black follow.

The colors of Venice

 

As I watch, I reflect on life without motorized vehicles. We’ve already seen workmen pushing large wooden carts laden with all sorts of building tools and supplies, bottles of wine, huge packages wrapped in brown paper, etc. They push their heavy loads manfully through the winding stone lanes, calling out, “Attenzione!” in authoritative voices as they make their way through the crowds.

 

In Venice, the cappuccino is always served on a small oval plate with a cookie, a small drinking glass and a tiny pitcher of sparkling water.

The remains of our breakfast

I’m developing quite a taste for sparkling water! (Note to self: stock up on Pellegrino next time I go to Trader Joe’s.) For breakfast, I’m eating a tramezzino, which is apparently the Italian idea of how the English eat their sandwiches. It’s half a sandwich on white Wonder bread with the crusts cut off, filled with tuna and chopped hard-boiled egg. It’s quite good. Rick is eating pizza for breakfast, because it’s almost lunch, he says (in his defense.)

St. Mark's Cathedral

Earlier this morning we made a marvelous discovery about St. Mark’s Cathedral. It’s not really a state secret because anyone can find it in the pages of Rick Steve’s guidebook, but apparently not everyone has, luckily for us. We didn’t want to wait in line for 2-3 hours in the blazing sun (duh) to see the famous cathedral, but we didn’t want to miss it, either. Rick Steves had the answer (Yay, Rick!!).The secret is that if you take a backpack and check it at the little office around the corner, you’re given a token. You show this token to the guard at the front of the line, and he allows you to go right in in front of everyone else. It was a bit embarrassing, but we braved the scathing looks of the poor tourists waiting in line. It was certainly worth it, all that softly-glowing gold, the ancient mosaic floors dimly illuminated by dusty shafts of light from the dome windows. Spectacular. I definitely recommend it, but only if you take a backpack.

Crossing over the Grand Canal

In the afternoon we stroll over the Accademia bridge and through a maze of stone alleyways and mini-piazzas and along tiny canals until we find the restaurant where we have reservations for our last dinner in Venice. It’s a dark little bistro with a romantic, flower-filled patio in the back. Our server is a plump, no-nonsense young woman.

Our salad

 

After we’ve ordered wine and dinner—an asparagus and quail-egg salad, followed by gnocchi with basil and freshly grated parmesan cheese and, for secondo piatto, rabbit braised in a lemon and black-olive sauce—she appears at our table with a different bottle of wine. She says, in a determined tone, “I recommend you this wine, but I know you will not like it. But I want to recommend a light wine to you so that it does not cover the flavors of the food, because the food you have ordered has very light, delicate flavors, and you are asking for wine which will completely obliterate those flavors.” So of course we say we’ll try her suggestion. As she’s opening the bottle, she continues. “First of all, I need you to be completely honest about whether you like the wine or not.” I try it, and it’s a very light red wine, even lighter than a pinot noir. It’s delicious, but I normally prefer a slightly more full-bodied wine. Eagle-eyed, she spots my hesitation and whisks the glass out of my hand, saying, “I can see that the signora doesn’t like the wine. That’s fine! That’s fine.” I’m a little nervous that we may have offended her, but she’s not at all upset. She takes the bottle away and comes back with another –”the same type of wine but a little bit heavier.” It’s just right. As we sit and eat our scrumptious dinner and talk and sip our wine, dusk falls and the fragrance of the night-blooming jasmine covering the stone patio walls perfumes the warm night air and everything’s just too perfect to be true. A fitting last night for our stay in Venice.

Rick's only regret- we didn't get to take a ride in a gondola. It would have cost 280 euros!!

 

 

 

We finally found the huge open-air market where the Venetians shop.

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Venice, Day Two

July 1, 2011 by 1 Comment

Venice, Day two. We are so jetlagged! I actually drifted off to sleep last night at 10 o’clock. It’s been years since that’s happened, since I have the worst insomnia in the world, so I was thrilled. But by two AM, I was wide awake. I realized the reason I drifted off was because my body thought it was having a nap after lunch, something it is wont to do. I was awake from two to seven AM (Rick too), then fell back to sleep. Seven in the morning, I guess, is a more reasonable time for me to go to sleep.

This isn't the trattoria we ate at- that one is called Maurizio's, and should be avoided like the plague!

We had dinner last night in a grungy little trattoria which looked romantic and Italian at first. Little candles on the table, red-and-white checked tablecloths, etc. Unfortunately, as soon as we were seated at a table for four—with another American couple so close we were forced, eventually, to take part in their conversation—it quickly began to go downhill. The bread in the basket the waiter plunked down on our table was stale, so, after picking around in it for a fresh piece and even taking a bite of one, I asked him, “Don’t you have any fresher bread?” He responded, “No, it’s all the same.” Then he put our basket, with the piece that had the bite out of it (!), back on the cart where all the others were stacked, ready to be given to a new table. Suffice it to say I wasn’t in a hurry to sample the bread from the next basket he gave us.

Now we’re in a café having breakfast, even though it’s lunchtime. I just ordered a hot chocolate, which is my normal daily allotment of calories in one cup. It’s thick, dark, bittersweet chocolate with salt and chopped up almonds, lavishly topped with whipped cream. It’s to die for (or from). And I’m waiting for my pizza to go with it!

The offending hot chocolate

This is while I was still recognizable. Now I have no neck.

We spend the rest of the day wandering, with no itinerary and no map, through the tiny lanes and piazzas. Except for the shop windows, which are works of art in themselves, everything’s ancient, and beautiful, in harmonious tones of dark red, umber and burnt sienna.

 

We cross the small canals and wander out to the Grand Canal and go over the Rialto bridge, where the North African immigrants hawk exploding plastic tomatoes and other toys.

The Rialto Bridge

Among the tourists you can occasionally pick out the native Venetians. They charge purposefully through the narrow lanes, heels clicking briskly on the worn stones, gesticulating and talking urgently on their cell phones. The middle-aged Italian women are very good-looking, thin, fit and stylishly dressed. I don’t think they work out, how do they do it? An irrational hope begins to take form in my mind: is it possible that I, too, could eat gelato and pasta and pizza and drink wine every single day and still be thin and fit? After all, they do it. Why can’t I?

 

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